


Helpless

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Late at night, alone, Malcolm replays the scene he had witnessed at Claremont as he stood helpless and watched Martin destroy Eddy.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	Helpless

He ground his jaw, relishing the stuttered slide of his teeth on the plastic mouth guard. His eyes were wide open, watching the play of light and shadows on the ceiling from the half window. Sleep wasn’t coming and he wasn’t mourning it’s absence. 

He could read. Or pace around the loft. Or drag himself into the living room to watch TV. Perhaps try sleeping on the couch instead, just for a change of venue. But he did none of those things. He didn't even toss and turn. 

No. In the dead stillness of the height of the night, he lay on his back, listening to the push and pull of his own breath. In. Out. 

In. Out. 

In.

Out.

He swallowed and blinked and was reminded how inescapably bound to his own body he was. Trapped in a prison where the bars were bones and his greatest torturer was the solitude of his own mind. Tilting his head, he stared towards the window and wished that he could make a jailbreak by unzipping his own too tight skin and crawling out towards freedom. Leave his fleshed shackles behind. 

Was this what the absence of sanity was? The pulling apart and breaking of a mind? Not a shout but a hushed whisper. The all encompassing, quiet acceptance of not caring if you woke up the next day?

He blinked slowly, and felt his soul slosh around in his chest as if it were made of ice cold water and his insides were an empty vessel.

Finally, he turned, deciding on his left side and rolling his neck as he went. The joints cracked and popped loudly in the quiet. He gripped his pillow and tried to let his mind go wherever it wanted. 

That was a dangerous thing to do, but it seemed to be the most promising route to sleep. After years of insomnia, (not that he wanted to actively seek sleep) he had come to know the tricks. He’d felt his way around the edges of maddening wakefulness, learning the things that could draw his body, near broken with exhaustion, towards respite. 

Dim the lights at least an hour before bed. Listen to relaxing music. Make sure he’d eaten a tiny amount of something so that his stomach wouldn’t writhe and wring like a washcloth in his abdomen. 

He’d lay on his back and when he found himself thinking something - anything - he’d roll over. Like an etch-a-sketch, he’d purposefully clear his mind. Caught thinking again? He’d shift to his other side, clearing the slate again. The trick was to let his mind wander after he’d cleared it. No purposeful thoughts, just whatever would lap up against his still conscious shore. 

It was like waiting to drown. Needing the water but knowing it would rush up your nose and spill down your lungs. Tears pricked at his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not even here. Not even alone in the dark. 

Thinking again. 

Shit. 

He rolled to his opposite side, listening to the soft rustle of his bedsheets as he moved. The pillow was cool beneath his cheek and smelled like fabric softener. He wondered if he could live here. Just become one with his bed, melting into it and it with him until he became as pure white as the sheets.

His eyes darted to the bottom of his bed where the ghost of Eve sat. 

He recalled her legs folded neatly, a look of patient observation gracing her features as he floated ashore to consciousness and made eye contact. The sun spilled into his loft and made her golden hair shine. She smiled at him. He smiled back. 

Now his room was dark, cavernous and empty. He didn’t even consider himself an occupant - just a shell, a husk, a mask taped to a human suit. 

Loneliness sat on his chest, wrapped one hand around his throat and pressed the other to cover his nose and mouth. He wondered if he could die from it. 

“Fuck,” he brought his hands to his face, frustrated at his own inability to shut his mind off. Without his permission, a yawn leapt from his mouth. The guard fell awkwardly into his mouth as he did so. When his lips met again, he bit it back into place and then wondered if he ought to just give up. 

What time was it? Near four, that much he knew. 

He’d become an expert at guessing the time, precisely because of nights like this. Nights that dragged their heels, kicking and squirming and demanding that he remain lucid for them. For what reason, he didn’t know. There was nothing to see. Nothing to do. No one to talk to.

These nights generated such a crushing feeling of claustrophobia. He gulped and bit his lip. Everyone could be awoken. The world would restart. But for now it was like everything and everyone was on pause - everyone except him. He was left behind to watch. To wait in the stillness. To be smothered by the silence. 

In a way, he had given up trying to chase sleep. He knew that without it, the bags under his eyes would only darken. The hollows of his cheeks would follow suit. The team would worry about him (as if they ever stopped). They would ask if he was okay...and what would he say to that? 

They would know that the answer was ‘no,’ before even issuing the question. 

Whether his mind approved or not, his body ached for unconsciousness. He recalled how he had chloroformed himself those many months ago to see if it would jumpstart his recall. It had done its job. And aside from the damp, sickly sweet smell and the too familiar pull of his childhood, he appreciated the ease with which he slipped towards the darkness. 

But that bottle and cloth was no longer on his nightstand. And Martin wasn’t around to do the deed for him either. 

Something in just thinking about it must be working though, because Malcolm felt his footing on consciousness slip. Of course, as soon as he had that thought, it came crashing back. 

He needed rest. A moment without Eve. Or Martin. 

Martin. 

His arm reaching around Malcolm’s face with the cloth in hand, whispering that everything would be alright when it wasn’t. Nothing was alright when it came to him. Helplessness spiraled in Malcolm’s chest as he recalled his tiny body going limp, the lightswitch in his brain flipped off. 

The vague sensation of being lifted. Carried. Soothed assurances cooed against his ear that so greatly differed from his booming story-telling voice or educationally informative tone. The words were sweet. Too sweet. Like the chloroform. That tone of voice twisted inside him like the drug and forced his body to react. 

Martin. 

Helplessness surges again in Malcolm’s chest as he remembers how, just earlier today, he had entered the outer hallway and saw the door to Martin’s cell and the struggle behind it. His hands rushed against the barrier as he screamed, “NYPD, open the door,” knowing that the words were futile and certainly would not be obeyed by the assailant. 

The muscles of Martin’s face had pulled together in alarm. Eyes wide, mouth parted, desperate for oxygen as the line was tightened around his neck. He made eye contact with Malcolm.

And what could Malcolm do? Nothing. He was helpless. Useless. He stood at the locked door, face to the window, his own breath fogging the bulletproof glass. 

He sucked in a terrified breath and watched in horror as Martin’s features slackened, his eyes beginning to close. Martin’s hands had scrambled pointlessly at his neck, the veins pronounced as his blood screamed in protest at the lack of oxygen. 

As soon as his eyelids had fully slid shut, Malcolm yelled, “Dr. Whitly!” and the words still rang in his ears, sharp and loud. Cutting and desperate. 

The terror ratcheted up with each passing second. Malcolm couldn’t help the singular syllable that was ripped from him. The word he never thought he’d say again. “Dad, no!” In that moment, he couldn’t believe that this could be it. That his own father would be murdered as he watched. But the word did something to Dr. Whitly. His eyes flew open. 

With renewed desire for self-preservation, he threw his weight backwards, slamming his assailant into the maroon painted wall and knocking the wind out of him. Aware of his proximity, Martin took the opportunity to then throw an elbow back to connect with his face. He reached around his own neck and divested it of the wire, then he turned, grabbed the man’s face with one hand, and pushed violently. The fake guard’s skull bounced off the wall. 

Martin pulled him forward and then tossed him to the ground as if he were garbage. 

That’s when Malcolm knew that things were about to go seriously south. 

Martin could have just left it at that. The man was down, the threat was gone. Instead, he rubbed at his neck as he formulated just what he was going to do next. 

He knelt, hovering above the barely conscious man’s body in a straddle. 

Malcolm’s mouth had gone dry. His heartbeat screamed in his ears as his eyes recorded every. Single. Detail. 

He couldn’t tear his attention away. The prey had become the predator and he knew that Martin was about to take this man apart with his teeth and claws. 

*In bed, Malcolm squirmed. His chains rattled as he shifted his position and blood began to rush to fill his cock.*

Martin leaned forward and whispered something to the man. Something that Malcolm couldn’t make out at first. It was only after the incident was over, upon later reflection, that he realized what Dr. Whitly had uttered; the words, crystallizing with alarming clarity that burning them into Malcolm’s mind for the rest of eternity. 

“This is for my son.” The realization of it smashed into Malcolm, and stole his breath away. 

*Malcolm was fully hard now, trapped in his loose sleeping pants that had become, suddenly, rather tight. He kicked his sheets away in haste and dragged the waistband of his pajamas down to mid thigh.*

He screamed for Martin to stop. He told him no. But watched his sweater-clad arm rise regardless. 

*Malcolm was breathless, hand skating down his abdomen and towards his heavy cock that rose to meet it. He grasped himself and began tightening his fist.*

Martin delivered a crushing jab, straight to the man’s face, breaking his nose. The strike was swift and ushered with lightning speed and alarming precision. His arm reared back once more. 

*A groan slid past Malcolm’s mouthguard as his arm moved in the moonlight. He teased the head of his cock and pressed into its leaking slit.*

Malcolm waited, hung, suspended...as if brought to the top of a rollercoaster. He looked down with terror. Terror and something else…the same something else that he was feeling right now, in this moment, alone in his bed and sealed into his head. That something was pitch black and bottomless. It drew Malcolm in, it made him quicken his pace.

Martin offered the guard another jab. 

Malcolm’s breath caught in his throat. He stood on pause as the scene played out before him. 

Dr. Whitly’s skilled surgical hands moved towards the man’s face and Malcolm mustered up another, “NO!” But the word just smacked against the windowed door and bounced back to him. 

A snarl twisted Martin’s features as he leaned forward and dug his thumbs into the almost-assassin’s eyes. The move was brutal and wholly unnecessary. Something potent and dark rolled through Malcolm as he watched. 

*Malcolm moaned, his hips now rising off the bed as he fucked the wet tightness of his own hand*

Eddie yelled beneath Martin who, in no way, let up on his assault. No, he was too busy dragging his eyes up to his boy as a smile graced his face. 

As soon as Malcolm’s eyes met Martin’s, a roar of lust reverberated through him. He recalled that feeling now as he let his legs fall open and he began twisting on the upstroke.

Martin’s smile was the same sort of satisfied grin that a child might have after performing a trick at the pool. Surfacing and searching for their friends who would whoop and cheer in adoration. It was a look that said, “see what I did for you? Are you proud of me?” 

To his horror, Malcolm was. He was proud of him. He had wrought pain and destruction on the man who had essentially taken away Eve and Malcolm was satisfied with this. So was Martin.

He was enjoying every second. The squeals from his assailant-turned-victim. The shocked look on Malcolm’s face. The sound of tearing flesh and dripping blood. That powerfully heady mix that he hadn’t tasted in twenty years rocked along his spine like taking a hit of a long-forgotten drug. It was the kind of high you only got when you held another life in your hands, lording over it with a deterministic grip that can seal fate.

Although... the pseudo-guard's fate had already been decided from the moment he attacked Martin. 

“Open this door, open this door,” Malcolm pleaded, feeling the rush of air in the hallway that signaled the outer door had been opened. And once the real guard had come and unlocked the door...once the barrier between Malcolm and his father had been removed...all he could do was numbly move inside. 

He entered the space but was unable to force his feet to go directly to Martin. Instead, he stared down at where his father’s fingers disappeared inside the other man. JT and Dani were the ones who had to race to pull Martin off of him. 

His cock was hard even then. Even as he stood, staring down at the man who’s eyeless head was haloed by his own blood. The sharp metallic smell rose in the air and mingled with the fear and adrenaline that already lived there. Malcolm was so hard that it hurt. And he couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t move to drag Martin away.

Why?

Why did he stand, a spectator? Fascinated by his father’s evisceration of this hitman. 

Tarmel and Powell were telling Martin to get off of him. To let go. 

Martin’s arms swung up and out as they gripped him under his biceps and lifted. His thumbs were red, as if he’d dug them into a cherry pie, filling falling away in drops to the floor. 

Malcolm heard the cuffs. He stared down at the guard, then up at his father. He was grateful that Dani and JT were occupied, because if they hadn’t been, they might have noticed the expression on his face. 

Bright didn’t wear disgust or repulsion on his features, only shock. Shock. 

When he ought to be puking or crying or at least have his damned hand shaking, he was doing none of those things. He felt no repulsion. He remained motionless, cock pulsing in time with his heartbeat as he waited for the world to reshape, to settle.

And Martin…

Martin sat on his cot, shocked in equal measure. His grin of satisfaction was gone and it was almost as if he’d drifted away from himself. Disassociated. If anyone knew what that looked like, it was Malcolm. It wasn’t until Dani asked JT if he was good that the doctor snapped back to reality.

But in the interum, between the shock and possible dissociation, as JT handcuffed the bleeding man on the floor, he informed him that he was being arrested for the murder of Eve Blanchard. 

There it was - the moment Malcolm had been waiting for. To catch Eve’s assassin. He watched JT cuff him and satisfaction stretched out in Malcolm’s chest. Not that they had arrested him, but that Martin had hurt him. 

He hurt him - for Malcolm.

And then just like that, Martin was introducing himself to JT, excited that he’d met the whole team. 

A fraction of silence. 

“Good thing you came in when you did, I was being brutally attacked,” Martin offered.   
Malcolm couldn’t free his gaze from the monster. The scene replayed over and over again in his head. Confusion and guilt and shame and lust smacked and clashed together.

“This is for my son,” the words echoed back to him now, in his bedroom, and Malcolm felt his orgasm approach. 

His hand moved roughly, sloppily. 

The slick sweetness of chloroform. 

The warmth of Martin saying, “my boy.” 

Malcolm discussing with Martin how some predators became aroused by violence. Martin assured him that wasn’t him. Wasn’t his M.O. Not why he did it. But then...it would seem that Malcolm...was...he was...by violence…

No. He couldn’t think about that. Not now. He let his mind flip to the next thing.

To the moment Martin opened his eyes after the coma. 

Then to the moment Martin opened his eyes after Malcolm screamed, “Dad.” 

The way Martin loomed over Eddie with fire in his eyes and death in his hands. 

“For my son.” 

Malcolm bucked and screamed and began to come. His cock twitched in his hand as it spilled onto his chest. It was the kind of orgasm that nearly makes you black out. Maybe he did. 

When he peeled his eyes open, the come was cooling on his still-heaving chest. 

Boneless. Sated. He gathered up just enough energy to wipe himself clean and then collapse. He lay there in the dark, breathing steadily, listening to the sound of it. A familiar patter against the window. He turned to look. It was raining. 

Exhaustion was dragging him under. Sleep approached. 

“Everything will be alright,” Martin soothed the syrupy words in his ear. “Everything’s alright my boy, my sweet boy.” 

And he slept.


End file.
